


spinning falsehoods into gold

by brinnanza



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Betrayal, Canonical Character Death, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, I feel like I should apologize but I'm not sorry, I mean maybe some comfort after but like it's just pain folks, Like the worst angst crimes I personally am capable of, bertie's nod, blue veins, jesus how do I even begin to tag this it's just pain it's 1500 words of pure pain, season four spoilers, vaguely anyway
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-27
Updated: 2020-02-27
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:13:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22916776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brinnanza/pseuds/brinnanza
Summary: He knows that voice. He knows that voice as well as his own, has memorized it, plays it back in his head so often that sometimes it’s the only thing he can hear because he cannot ever let himself forget it. And it’s - it’s impossible, Hamid knows that. It has to be his imagination playing tricks on him, some vague sense memory dredged up unwillingly. Because shedied, years ago; they buried her and mourned her and tried to learn to live in the world she was no longer in.
Relationships: Aziza al-Tahan & Hamid Saleh Haroun al-Tahan, Hamid Saleh Haroun al-Tahan & Azu
Comments: 12
Kudos: 52





	spinning falsehoods into gold

**Author's Note:**

> okay look. this is babs's fault.
> 
> I, a known criminal who has said more than once that they wanted hamid to find out bertie basically killed his sister, was doing perfectly reasonable angst crimes in the rsb jail like, "what if bertie comes back as infected and hamid finds out about the nod" and then babs said, "that's baby crime, what if aziza comes back" and then I sort of blacked out and when I came to, this was typed in the chat window. so. yknow. blame babs.
> 
> (just kidding babs ilu)
> 
> anyway this one's FUCKIN DARK lads, take care of yourselves. title's from the mech's stranger.

"Hamid," says a familiar voice, shattering the silence that falls in the wake of the battle.

Hamid freezes. He doesn't look up from where he's crouched down beside the smoldering remains of what used to be a person, maybe, once, blue veins streaked across every bit of skin that remains unburned. 

He knows that voice. He knows that voice as well as his own, has memorized it, plays it back in his head so often that sometimes it’s the only thing he can hear because he cannot ever let himself forget it. And it’s - it’s impossible, Hamid knows that. It has to be his imagination playing tricks on him, some vague sense memory dredged up unwillingly. Because she _died_ , years ago; they buried her and mourned her and tried to learn to live in the world she was no longer in.

Slowly, he looks up. There's a halfling woman standing before him, and it's like looking into his own future, the spitting image of his own face with a few more years and a messy tangle of curls. He stares, blinks, and she becomes a wet smear as his eyes well up with tears. He tries to take a deep breath but he can’t, not around the tight ache in his chest that drowns everything else out

"Aziza?" he whispers.

"Hamid," she says again, softer now, and it's _impossible_ but it sounds just like her, _looks_ just like her. Her clothes are dirty and a little ragged, nowhere near the standard of dress she used to hold herself to, but it’s the same style of blouse she always favored, the same long skirt. "Hamid, I've missed you so much."

“But how - ‘Ziza, you _died_ ,” Hamid manages before his voice breaks and he begins crying in earnest, hot tears spilling down his cheeks. He has missed her so much, with a bone-deep ache that never goes away no matter how far he runs from it. It’s impossible that she could be standing here, whole, alive, but… but he knows her. She’s his sister, and he knows her, better than he knows himself, knows every weary line on her face, every curl of her hair.

She kneels down in the dust and ash beside him and reaches out to touch his face, brushing a lock of hair from his forehead. “No, darling, no,” she murmurs. “I’m right here, see?” She opens her arms, and Hamid collapses against her, sobbing into her chest like he’s six years old all over again, aching for the comfort that has been denied him. He clings to her, hands fisted in her shirt so tightly that his knuckles go white. “I’m here, Hamid. I’m right here.”

“Hamid,” says another familiar voice, low and urgent. There’s a flicker of fear in it, and Hamid knows what Azu’s going to say, what she thinks this is, but he doesn’t care. He has lost so many people, _keeps_ losing them, and he doesn’t care what Azu thinks because finally, finally he’s gotten one of them back. “Hamid, you need to get away from her.”

He clings tighter to Aziza. He never saw her body, not her face. She was wrapped for the funeral, and he wasn’t in the opera house when it happened. It’s… It’s possible, isn’t it? Grizzop never met Aziza; maybe he had her confused with someone else. Maybe Aziza’s husband, in his grief, had been confused. Maybe the woman buried in the Tahan plot is a stranger, someone else’s missing sister.

He holds onto that hope for just a moment, lets it warm him like a flicker of fire in deepest winter. He wants it to be true, more than he has ever wished for anything in his life, but he knows better. Of course he knows.

“Hamid, it’s me,” Aziza says. She leans away from his enough to tip his face up to hers, brushing away his tears with the pad of his thumb. “It’s all going to be alright now, okay?”

“I love you, Aziza,” he says, and she smiles down at him, expression as familiar as Hamid’s own skin. He swallows hard and hugs her, fiercely. “I’m so sorry,” he whispers into her hair, and then he pulls the trigger.

The crossbow bolt sinks into Aziza’s stomach with a thud and a wet squelch, and she lets go of him in shock. Hamid scrambles backwards away from her, back toward Azu. He’s out of spells, run dry after the preceding battle, he’s not sure if he could attack her even if he had the power. 

He can see her now, how her brown eyes go wide. She touches her stomach, and her hand comes away dark and slick. Her brows draw together, and she just looks at him, the confusion on her face so familiar it hurts. “Hamid, _why?”_

“You’re not her,” Hamid says. His hands are shaking so badly that he can’t hold on to his crossbow, and it slips out of his grasp, clattering to the ground. “I’m sorry, but you’re just - you’re not her.”

“Of course I am, Hamid!” she says, and it’s her voice, the same voice that used to murmur lullabies to help him sleep after he’d gotten in trouble with his parents, the same voice that laughed at his jokes, the same voice that had told him with all the conviction she could muster that crying didn’t make him weak, but it’s not Aziza that is using it.

“No,” Hamid says. Beside him, Azu touches his shoulder, and he lays his hand atop hers. “No, Aziza died, and I - I mourned her.” He wonders, wildly, if this is how Zolf felt upon seeing him in Cairo, this same swell of doubt and grief and stubborn hope. “She’s gone, and - I don’t know what you are, but you’re not her.”

Aziza - the thing that is not Aziza - draws in a ragged breath and struggles to her feet. She sways a little, one hand holding her stomach. “Hamid, please. I’m your sister.”

“You’re not,” Hamid repeats. “My sister died in Prague. She’s _gone_. _She’s_ gone, and Bertie’s gone, and Sasha’s gone, and Grizzop’s gone and -” His voice breaks on a sob, and he drops to his knees in the dirt, no longer strong enough to stay on his feet. “Everyone is just _gone_.”

The thing that is not Aziza takes a shuddering step forward, and there’s a _snick_ of metal as Azu draws her ax. “Please, Hamid. You weren’t even there, remember? I’ve missed you so much, and - Do you know your friend Bertie tried to trade my life for his?”

“You’re lying,” Hamid says, and his voice is barely a whisper as doubt creeps in beneath the words. “He - he wouldn’t.”

The thing that is not Aziza takes another step toward them, and Azu tenses. “But he did, Hamid,” the thing that is not Aziza says. “Kafka gave him a choice, and he chose himself. Your best friend was willing to let your own flesh and blood die.” Another shuddering step. “He might as well have killed me himself, and now you would do that same.”

“Stop it!” Hamid yells, and his claw rend furrows in the dirt beneath his hands. It can’t be true, it _can’t_. It isn’t. “Stop it, just stop it! You’re not - you’re not _real_. Bertie was - he - he had his flaws, but he wouldn’t do that, not to my sister. Not to me.”

“Oh, Hamid,” says the thing that is not Aziza, her voice playing at sympathy. There is pity on her face, and she holds her stomach, red and blue dripping between her fingers. “ _Wouldn’t he?”_

Sunlight glints off of Azu’s ax as it slams into the thing that is not Aziza, and Hamid slams his eyes shut. It’s not her, it’s not, but he can’t watch her be cut down, not while she’s wearing Aziza’s face. 

Someone is screaming, somewhere. It’s only when Hamid’s throat starts to burn that he realizes it’s coming from him. There is no magic left within him to channel the rage and grief and pain, no way to expel those white-hot flames that burn like the sun, and so they consume him instead, tearing through everything inside him until all that’s left is ash.

There is movement beside him, the quiet clank of shifting metal. Azu touches his shoulder, and her hand is gentle, like Hamid is some delicate, breakable thing. As if he has not already shattered into nothing, irreparable. He trembles as his screams fade into choking sobs, and Azu says, “We must return to the others.”

Hamid doesn’t answer her. Can’t, not when there is nothing left of him. 

“Alright,” Azu says softly. “I’m going to pick you up, okay?” There’s a pause, and then her hands are on him, movements careful and slow as she lifts him, settles him into her arms. He leans his head against her chest, exhausted and hollow, as his own chest still heaves with sobs.

And then they’re moving, towards the place that passes for home.


End file.
